Apple and Rain

by Sarah Crossan

  ‘How do I print?’ I call over to the librarian.

  She smiles. ‘I’ll print it for you,’ she says. She comes and sits on the chair next to mine. I don’t want her reading what I’ve written, but she doesn’t. She presses some buttons and gets the printer set up. Across the room, it gurgles to life.

  She jumps up and returns with my English homework.

  I fold the paper and put it into my bag. ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  She bows slightly as Rain comes bounding over from the children’s section. ‘Jenny really loved that!’ she says. Her face is flushed from dancing and singing.

  ‘It was nice of you to bring her along,’ I say. I’m being sort of sarcastic, but Rain doesn’t notice. ‘OK, shall we get books so you have something to do at home for the rest of the week?’ I ask.

  The librarian frowns and looks like she’s about to ask a question. I quickly pull Rain by the arm back into the children’s section.

  ‘Right, you need some fiction and non-fiction. I think if you get one history, one science and two novels, that’ll be enough for today.’

  Rain looks around at the shelves. ‘Can I take them home?’

  ‘It’s a library, Rain, of course you can. Haven’t you ever borrowed a book from a library?’

  ‘Nope. I read stuff on Mum’s iPad.’

  ‘But . . .’ I look along the shelves. I never choose a book without picking it up and flicking through the pages. I always read the first few lines. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the ones I like,’ I say. I take her to the fiction section, and we explore.

  Rain is sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, completely engrossed in a mystery about a girl who goes to sleep one night in her parents’ boring old house in Croydon and wakes up the next day in a Victorian London orphanage. I’m reading the brand new Mallary Ford novel, which I’ve been waiting for ages for the library to get in. I’ve also found a book of poems by someone called Emily Dickinson. Most of them are short. I scan my eye over one or two and decide to give the collection a try.

  ‘Shall we get these then?’ I say. I pat the pile of books we’ve chosen.

  Rain doesn’t look up from her reading.

  ‘Let’s get going.’ I pull her to her feet.

  We’re on our way to the front desk when I see Nana chatting with the white-haired librarian. I yank Rain behind a bookcase.

  ‘Ouch. Don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Shh.’ I press my index finger to my lips. ‘Nana’s here. If she sees us . . .’ I stop because I don’t know what she’d do. All I know is that I don’t want to find out.

  ‘She’s not my nana,’ Rain says.

  ‘Yes, she is. Or your nan or gran or grandma or whatever you want to call her,’ I whisper.

  Rain peers around the bookcase. ‘Is she nice?’

  ‘Yes. She’s . . . very nice.’ I take a peek myself, using one eye.

  Nana is leaning on the issuing desk, watching the librarian scan the barcodes. She isn’t crying or frowning or anything like that, but she looks sad. Her eyes look sad. And her shoulders are rounded.

  I hide behind the bookcase again.

  ‘Is she OK?’ Rain asks, seeing it too.

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe Derry’s sick or Nana fell out with someone at the church,’ I say. But if it is one of those things then why do I feel so guilty? I sneak another look as Nana drops her books into her shopping trolley and slowly shuffles out of the library. I’ve always thought of Nana as old-fashioned but I never thought she was old. Not until now, and it makes me want to chase after her.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Rain asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  I take her to the desk to have our books issued.

  ‘You’re lucky to snap this one up,’ the librarian says. She holds up the Mallary Ford novel.

  ‘I know. I love her books,’ I say quietly.

  I don’t sound excited – I can’t be. All I can think about are Nana’s sad eyes and rounded shoulders. All I can think about is how I probably should have helped her wheel home the shopping trolley.

  26

  Even though Mum’s not home at five o’clock like she said she would be, I don’t worry. I don’t even worry at six o’clock. Instead, I put a frozen cottage pie into the oven and set the dining table ready for when she does get home. I fold the paper napkins in two and arrange them smartly in the glasses like they do at restaurants. I put a bottle of white wine in the fridge.

  At seven o’clock she still isn’t home. When I call her mobile, she doesn’t answer.

  ‘Where is she?’ Rain asks even though she knows I don’t know. I feel like telling her to shut up, but I don’t. It isn’t her fault Mum’s late.

  ‘Have you got any of her friends’ phone numbers?’ I ask.

  ‘Do you think something bad has happened to her?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say. But my belly’s becoming a ball of dough that feels like it’s rolling around inside me – heavy and raw. ‘Why don’t you give Jenny a bath? I’m sure Mum’ll be back before bedtime,’ I say. I try to sound convinced.

  I distract myself from thinking about Mum being hurt by cleaning the kitchen. I shine the taps and the hob and the fronts of all the cupboards. I empty the crumbs out of the toaster.

  I’m on my knees under the table with the dustpan and brush when Rain comes back in. Jenny is wrapped in a towel. Rain looks in the fridge then slams it.

  ‘We’ve no milk, and Jenny’s hungry,’ she says.

  I look up and bump my head on the corner of one of the chairs. ‘Jenny’s fine. Give her some water,’ I snap. I rub my head.

  ‘She won’t sleep without milk.’

  ‘Rain, come on. It’s dark and drizzly outside, and Mum’s still not home.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll go get it myself.’ She puts a hat on Jenny and clambers into her jacket.

  ‘Get back here.’ I crawl out from under the table and catch hold of her hood.

  ‘Hey!’ She screeches much louder than she needs to. ‘You jerked my neck. And you’ve upset the baby.’

  I feel my eyes well with tears. I press my knuckles against my lids and take a deep breath. ‘Jenny will catch a chill. I’ll get the milk,’ I say.

  ‘You have to say sorry for hurting me, or I’ll tell Mom.’

  ‘Tell her whatever you like,’ I say.

  I run all the way to the corner shop at the bottom of our road. It smells of raw chicken and dust. The fridges are almost empty. The only milk they have is a really big carton of skimmed. I dig in my pocket and pull out the money left from the tenner Mum gave me this morning – ninety-five pence – not nearly enough. ‘Excuse me,’ I say to the woman who is stacking shelves with boxes of dishwasher tablets behind me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I need a small milk.’

  ‘If it’s not out, we haven’t got it.’

  ‘I don’t have enough money for a big one.’

  ‘And?’ She clicks her tongue.

  ‘I need to feed a baby,’ I say.

  A man in a grey suit reaches over me and picks up two fruit corner yoghurts. I wonder if I could ask him for a pound, but I don’t want him to think I’m a beggar.

  I leave the shop and stand outside. I won’t go home empty-handed. I can’t handle Rain when she has a meltdown. The dough ball in my belly starts to swell and I think I might scream into the sky. Jenny isn’t even real but I’m standing outside some smelly shop in the dark wondering how I can feed her real food.

  And maybe that’s my own problem. Because she doesn’t actually need real food. We could feed her seawater mixed with chalk dust and she’d be OK. There’s no reason for me to be embroiled in Rain’s fantasy.

  So I go back into the shop and buy a small bag of plain flour which costs ninety-five pence exactly.

  I sneak into the flat and mix the flour with water, shaking it up in one of Jenny’s bottles. Then I tip the rest of the flour into an empty, airtight tub for cereal and pop it into the cupboard. ‘Rain!’ I call
to her.

  She comes out wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and Christmas tights with snowmen down the sides. Jenny is dressed in a onesie. ‘What took you so long?’ she says. Her eyes and nose are all red. She must have been crying. Her breathing is quick and light.

  ‘Mum called my mobile when I was out. She’ll be home soon,’ I lie. I shake the baby bottle again and hand it to her. ‘Here. They didn’t have any milk, so I got formula.’

  Rain takes the bottle and looks at it suspiciously. ‘What kind of formula?’

  ‘Uh . . . I can’t remember the brand. Mix one tablespoon with water. It’s better for the baby than milk. Has all the vitamins and things she needs.’

  ‘OK,’ she says. She pretend-feeds Jenny the concoction and tries a smile with the corner of her mouth but bites it away as the noise of keys rattling and a door opening trickles up the stairs. Rain grimaces like she has a bad taste in her mouth. ‘About time,’ she says. Without waiting to make sure Mum’s OK, she heads back down the hall and closes our bedroom door.

  Mum comes bundling up the stairs, carrying an armful of papers and post and holding her house keys in her mouth. I take the keys from her and she puts the papers on the kitchen counter. ‘Oh, Apple, you couldn’t put the kettle on for me, could you? I’ve had the worst day imaginable.’

  ‘Sure!’ I fill the kettle and pop a spoon of instant coffee into a mug for her. Then I remember we’ve no milk. ‘You’ll have to have it black,’ I tell her.

  She flops on to the couch without noticing how clean the flat looks. ‘I’ll have anything. Such a lousy day.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Did the agent say she could get you a part on EastEnders?’

  Mum reaches into her handbag for her cigarettes. She lights one and sighs. ‘No. The agent was a scam artist. I ended up going into London to meet an old tutor of mine about getting some backstage work, but when I took him to dinner, he made a pass at me. He thought it was a date. A date? The guy’s, like, sixty.’

  ‘So you didn’t get a part in anything?’

  ‘Zilch. I’ll have to make appointments to see the agents in London. I need my name out there. But God, the trains are expensive.’

  ‘What about your car?’

  ‘I can’t afford it right now. It was only a hire car anyway.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  She looks up sharply. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say quickly. I’m probably tired from looking after Rain and worrying about Nana and Mum. ‘I tried to call you.’

  Mum shows me her mobile. ‘Flat battery.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You aren’t annoyed with me, are you, Apple?’

  ‘No. It’s just that Rain was upset you weren’t home on time,’ I say. I hand Mum a cup of steaming coffee. She inhales the steam coming from it and smiles.

  ‘Lovely.’ She stubs out her cigarette on the clean saucer and taps the cushion next to her. I cuddle in close. ‘If Rain hadn’t been so slow this morning, she could have come with me. To be honest, Apple, I’m getting a bit tired of it all. Since this business with Jenny, I’ve hardly had a second to myself. She was bullied in New York and now she’s being bullied here. Am I meant to give up my dreams and take care of her? She’s not a baby. It so hard, Apple.’ She pulls me tighter into her. ‘Thank you for taking charge today. It really put my mind at ease. I’m so glad you’re here to help.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say.

  Mum drains her mug of coffee and plonks it on the side table. ‘I’m starved. I hardly ate anything at dinner,’ she says.

  I jump up and skip to the kitchen. ‘We have cottage pie,’ I say.

  ‘You know what I fancy? Some cheese on toast,’ Mum says. She blows me a kiss. ‘And I think I’ll have a glass of wine with it.’

  I take the wine from the fridge.

  ‘I’m going to save a fortune on cleaners, cooks and nannies,’ Mum says. She laughs.

  I pour her a big serving of white wine and the glass sweats. I hand it to her and she takes a long gulp. ‘Delicious. Now pass the bottle over here. I don’t want to make you keep refilling it.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I say. And I don’t.

  ‘You’re one of a kind, Apollinia Apostolopoulou, you know that?’

  Living with Nana and having a strange name has always made me feel abnormal. But when Mum says I’m one of a kind, she only means it in a good way.

  I throw away the cottage pie and turn on the grill to make her cheese on toast.

  It’s going to be the best cheese on toast ever.

  Part 4

  27

  I forget to bring an absence note with me to school the next day and Mrs Wilkins, my form tutor, acts as though I’ve committed a violent crime. ‘Everyone else manages to remember their sick notes, Apple. Please don’t forget it tomorrow,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, miss,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, miss,’ Donna mocks from across the classroom.

  A few other girls giggle. But instead of sinking in my seat, which I would usually do, I give Donna the finger. I’ve never given anyone the finger before.

  ‘Miss, Apple just swore at me,’ Donna calls out.

  ‘Apple? Did you swear?’ Mrs Wilkins asks.

  ‘I didn’t say anything.’

  Mrs Wilkins comes to my desk. ‘I’ll speak to you after registration.’ Behind her, Donna is smirking and then she gives me the finger back and the whole class laughs. I don’t bother telling Mrs Wilkins. What’s the point?

  The bell rings and Mrs Wilkins dismisses the class. I stay where I am, and as Donna leaves, she scratches her middle finger along my desk. I try to catch Pilar’s eye, to see if she’s ready to be friends again, but she bundles out with everyone else and doesn’t look at me.

  Mrs Wilkins is wiping the board. ‘Swearing is punish­able by detention,’ she says. She raises her eyebrows.

  ‘I know, miss,’ I say.

  ‘Can you promise me you won’t do it again? If you can, I’ll pretend it didn’t happen.’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ I say. I try to look really sorry. It’s always the best tactic with Mrs Wilkins.

  ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘You can go.’

  But as I try to leave, Dr Dillon, the deputy head, rushes in.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Wilkins, I had hoped I’d catch your class before they left for lessons,’ Dr Dillon says. She pushes her hand through her long grey hair then slips it into the pocket of her blazer. She rocks back and forth in her patent leather shoes. She’s so tall I can see right up her nose.

  ‘I did wait until the bell went, Doctor Dillon,’ Mrs Wilkins says nervously.

  ‘Yes, yes. That’s all right. Only we have a new student today. I wanted to find a buddy for him. Are the group together for the next lesson?’

  A boy is standing in the corridor, examining the science display on the wall. He isn’t dressed in the correct uniform. He’s got a grey shirt on underneath his jumper, not white, and he’s wearing combat trousers instead of plain black ones, which no one except the Year Elevens ever try to get away with.

  ‘It’s foreign languages,’ Mrs Wilkins says. This means we’re split into different groups; we won’t be together again until English, which is after lunch.

  Mrs Wilkins sidles past Dr Dillon and into the corridor. ‘Let me see your timetable,’ she says to the boy. He turns around and hands her the paper he’s holding. And I recognise him immediately. He’s the boy I met in Nana’s garden – the one with the animal jumpers and warpaint. Del.

  Mrs Wilkins runs her finger along Del’s timetable. ‘Right, so you’ve got French now.’ She turns to me. ‘Apple, come here.’

  I inch my way out of the classroom.

  ‘You have French now with Madame Moreau, don’t you?’

  I nod slowly. I know where this is all leading, but the last thing I need with Pilar blanking me and Donna being mean is to be seen hanging around with the new boy. I rub my temples with the tips of my fingers.


  Dr Dillon appears next to me. She twitches and flattens down the lapels on her blazer. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asks. She takes my shoulders.

  I groan. My head suddenly feels full of pressure.

  ‘Do you need to see the nurse?’ Mrs Wilkins asks. I almost say yes because then I might get sent home, but it’s a Tuesday, and orchestra is on Tuesday, which means I’ll see Egan Winters. Now that Mum has spoken to him and he’s spoken to me, he can’t pretend I don’t exist; he’ll have to say hello.

  ‘I’ve got a headache, miss,’ I say.

  ‘Well, drink some water, dear,’ Dr Dillon says. ‘I’m so late. Mrs Wilkins, please find a home for this boy.’ She doesn’t wait for Mrs Wilkins to answer. She swivels around, her shoes squeaking on the floor, and sails off down the corridor.

  Mrs Wilkins smiles. ‘Right, Apple, to make up for your swearing, I’d like you to take care of our newcomer. Forget his timetable. Let him shadow you.’ She taps me on the head, turns around, and is gone as quickly as Dr Dillon.

  Del smiles. ‘Swearing? You never struck me as a rebel, Apple Blossom.’

  ‘Don’t call me Apple Blossom,’ I snap.

  He lifts up his hands in surrender. ‘How about Grapefruit Bloom? Can I call you Grapefruit?’

  ‘You’re not funny.’

  ‘I know. It’s a curse. The worst thing about it is that my dad’s a professional comedian.’

  ‘No, he isn’t.’

  ‘No. He isn’t. But wouldn’t it be cool if he was?’ Del isn’t carrying a normal school bag. Instead, he’s got a cream canvas tote over his shoulder. It’s got pictures of cartoon mermaids on it, their long hair barely covering their breasts. If he thinks the other kids are going to let him get away with that, he’s deluded. And if I let him use it, I’ll be killed by association.

  ‘Get rid of the bag,’ I say.

  ‘How will I carry my . . .’ He looks inside. ‘Pencils, cheese sandwich and a flask of elderberry tea.’ He takes his sandwich from the bag, unwraps the brown paper and takes a bite.

  ‘It’s nine o’clock in the morning,’ I tell him.